Ficcers!
Title: It's Not What You Make, It's What You Leave
Author: rainjewel
Fandom, Pairing: Green Day, Mike/Billie
Rating: PG13
Warnings: Angst. Swearing.
Word Count: 1,220
Notes: Takes place between International Superhits! and American Idiot, when the band was thinking of breaking up. Mike POV 'cause he's my little baby. Unbetaed.
Mike sits outside the dirty bar, jacket collar pushed up around his neck by the brick wall against his back, the back of it probably roughed up from when he slid down in defeat. He lights a cigarette, coughing once as his lungs protest. Spent three hours in that fuckin’ place with too many fuckin’ smokers. Doesn’t matter, his voice is pretty much useless. Mike takes a long drag, holding the smoke in as it rolls on his tongue like a soothing word before letting it burn out through his nostrils. It calms him down, but only a little.
“Do you really wanna do this anymore?” The sound of people in the background. The number that wasn’t traceable. He still doesn’t know why he picked up.
Mike can’t remember the first time he came to this bar. He’s not even sure he was twenty-one. He remembers back when the sign wasn’t lit up in neon like it is now, illuminating his small figure in the red light. Mike watches the glow of the cigarette cherry against his hand, orange and blood against the black Californian sky. If he were Billie, he’d have something to say right now. Something almost like poetry, but probably closer to sarcasm.
Lots of Irish in this bar, Mike likes that. Billie did too, eyes always a little too wide as he took in the musical sound of a hundred lilting slurs. Mike could barely keep his attention amidst the noise. Tré just liked the opportunity to try and drink someone under the table who actually proved challenging. Yeah. Irish. Good singers.
When Mike finally checked in with a therapist, trying to finally curb his alcoholism, he wondered why he spent so much time trying to keep up.
“Do I really wanna do what, Bill? I don’t even know what you mean anymore. Seemed like we haven’t been doin’ it for awhile now, yeah?” Sound of exasperated sighing. That half-whine Billie makes when he feels a headache comin’ on, two fingers pressed just above those bushy eyebrows.
Billie’s first show was tonight. He sent tickets, but Mike just sent them back and bought one under a name he’d never let anyone know about before. He didn’t want to chance Billie seeing him in the pit but wandering around in the seats wasn’t going to be satisfying enough so he dove in. Hard to find a disguise after years of seeing one another in every form imaginable. Mike’s not sure he wants to spend that much time on his hair again, but it was worth it. Fucker looked him right in the eye and just kept moving on to someone else.
“They’ve offered me a solo gig. I won’t take it of course, those fuckin’ dicks. Can you believe that?” Cold, cold feeling in the pit of his stomach, the kind you get when you know something isn’t right, not how it’s supposed to be. Trying to stop the words before they had jumped out of his mouth and into infamy.
The thing was, he looked happy. Mike was prepared for a lot of things. He was prepared for the lyrics, that little window into Bill’s soul that everyone got a glimpse of but only a few really knew. He was prepared to join the unknowing masses. He was prepared for bass lines that were better than his own, the sound different, more polished and still just as pissed off as Green Day had ever been. The drummer, some Vandals fill-in, wasn’t as good as Tré. Billie didn’t seem to mind, at least from what Mike could tell when he climbed up on the kick drum for a few teasing thrusts.
Mike wasn’t prepared for Billie On His Own, Billie the Self Made Man, Billie I Don’t Fucking Need You Guys Because They Still Love Me. Mike tries to tell himself that it’s all Billie’s showmanship, that little asshole persona that comes out when they’re trying to fucking play a song and Billie’s bitching at the kids fighting on the rail. The way Billie can wring the best goddamn tone from his throat even on the third day without sleep and not even blink.
“Pretty easy to believe, Bill. I mean, they’ve already called you a sellout. Doesn’t really matter what I say though, right? My opinion doesn’t matter.” Anger coursing through his veins, heart hammering through skin like paper. Wanting Billie to take back every comment on how he never mattered, wanting to crawl across phone lines and state lines and shove that little fucker onto the mattress until the only thing that mattered was whether Bill got to come that night or not.
The Irish have good drinking songs, and they have an even better karaoke machine. Mike thought a few stout drinks would have him good and apathetic over the entire mess. At least the hilarity of three grown men singing Jo Dee Messina songs with the vowels all wrong would be enough to forget for awhile. It wasn’t until he heard someone start belting out Billie’s new single that he realized there wasn’t anyway to escape this.
Deep breath. “Fuck you, Mike. Just…fuck you. I said I was sorry.”
Mike remembers the satisfying sound the CD Billie sent him made as it hit the pavement of his driveway. A loud crack! with the soft, twinkling sound of acrylic falling like heavy glitter, shining silver on the blacktop. The sun was setting that day, everything bathed in red.
“Doesn’t matter, Bill.” Soft tone of voice, chest moving with each breath, lungs feeling as if they had been filled with syrup. “You meant it. That’s all that fucking matters.”
Mike’s cigarette goes out before he finishes it. He tries to convince himself that that is the most annoying thing that has happened to him all night. It works about as well as when he tried to forget how he mouthed every word Billie sang at the show. How he knew every tour date, every person on the crew, every goddamn piece of information he could find or pay for, he knew.
“I’m leaving the band. That’s what I called to tell you.” Pain like a bullet wound, deep and blooming. Repeating the same words back to Bill and finding that he couldn’t spit them out with as much venom as he wanted.
Mike wonders at how he knows Billie is going to make it on his own. He tilts his head up, staring into the red sun of the bar sign. His jacket feels too big, like it was made to hold more than just him and he almost wants to tear it in half with his bare hands, just to feel like he’s accomplished something. Everything feels empty, like his cigarette that couldn’t wait for him to finish it, like the throb of the bar, churning with life without him in there, like every word and sound on Billie’s record that is missing something-him.
Mike is slowly starting to realize there is no keeping up in life. There isn’t even keeping score. Armed with a mostly-smoked pack of cigs, between a rough brick wall and the dark Oakland night, Mike’s starting to realize that no one really cares if he even shows up at all.
Author: rainjewel
Fandom, Pairing: Green Day, Mike/Billie
Rating: PG13
Warnings: Angst. Swearing.
Word Count: 1,220
Notes: Takes place between International Superhits! and American Idiot, when the band was thinking of breaking up. Mike POV 'cause he's my little baby. Unbetaed.
Mike sits outside the dirty bar, jacket collar pushed up around his neck by the brick wall against his back, the back of it probably roughed up from when he slid down in defeat. He lights a cigarette, coughing once as his lungs protest. Spent three hours in that fuckin’ place with too many fuckin’ smokers. Doesn’t matter, his voice is pretty much useless. Mike takes a long drag, holding the smoke in as it rolls on his tongue like a soothing word before letting it burn out through his nostrils. It calms him down, but only a little.
“Do you really wanna do this anymore?” The sound of people in the background. The number that wasn’t traceable. He still doesn’t know why he picked up.
Mike can’t remember the first time he came to this bar. He’s not even sure he was twenty-one. He remembers back when the sign wasn’t lit up in neon like it is now, illuminating his small figure in the red light. Mike watches the glow of the cigarette cherry against his hand, orange and blood against the black Californian sky. If he were Billie, he’d have something to say right now. Something almost like poetry, but probably closer to sarcasm.
Lots of Irish in this bar, Mike likes that. Billie did too, eyes always a little too wide as he took in the musical sound of a hundred lilting slurs. Mike could barely keep his attention amidst the noise. Tré just liked the opportunity to try and drink someone under the table who actually proved challenging. Yeah. Irish. Good singers.
When Mike finally checked in with a therapist, trying to finally curb his alcoholism, he wondered why he spent so much time trying to keep up.
“Do I really wanna do what, Bill? I don’t even know what you mean anymore. Seemed like we haven’t been doin’ it for awhile now, yeah?” Sound of exasperated sighing. That half-whine Billie makes when he feels a headache comin’ on, two fingers pressed just above those bushy eyebrows.
Billie’s first show was tonight. He sent tickets, but Mike just sent them back and bought one under a name he’d never let anyone know about before. He didn’t want to chance Billie seeing him in the pit but wandering around in the seats wasn’t going to be satisfying enough so he dove in. Hard to find a disguise after years of seeing one another in every form imaginable. Mike’s not sure he wants to spend that much time on his hair again, but it was worth it. Fucker looked him right in the eye and just kept moving on to someone else.
“They’ve offered me a solo gig. I won’t take it of course, those fuckin’ dicks. Can you believe that?” Cold, cold feeling in the pit of his stomach, the kind you get when you know something isn’t right, not how it’s supposed to be. Trying to stop the words before they had jumped out of his mouth and into infamy.
The thing was, he looked happy. Mike was prepared for a lot of things. He was prepared for the lyrics, that little window into Bill’s soul that everyone got a glimpse of but only a few really knew. He was prepared to join the unknowing masses. He was prepared for bass lines that were better than his own, the sound different, more polished and still just as pissed off as Green Day had ever been. The drummer, some Vandals fill-in, wasn’t as good as Tré. Billie didn’t seem to mind, at least from what Mike could tell when he climbed up on the kick drum for a few teasing thrusts.
Mike wasn’t prepared for Billie On His Own, Billie the Self Made Man, Billie I Don’t Fucking Need You Guys Because They Still Love Me. Mike tries to tell himself that it’s all Billie’s showmanship, that little asshole persona that comes out when they’re trying to fucking play a song and Billie’s bitching at the kids fighting on the rail. The way Billie can wring the best goddamn tone from his throat even on the third day without sleep and not even blink.
“Pretty easy to believe, Bill. I mean, they’ve already called you a sellout. Doesn’t really matter what I say though, right? My opinion doesn’t matter.” Anger coursing through his veins, heart hammering through skin like paper. Wanting Billie to take back every comment on how he never mattered, wanting to crawl across phone lines and state lines and shove that little fucker onto the mattress until the only thing that mattered was whether Bill got to come that night or not.
The Irish have good drinking songs, and they have an even better karaoke machine. Mike thought a few stout drinks would have him good and apathetic over the entire mess. At least the hilarity of three grown men singing Jo Dee Messina songs with the vowels all wrong would be enough to forget for awhile. It wasn’t until he heard someone start belting out Billie’s new single that he realized there wasn’t anyway to escape this.
Deep breath. “Fuck you, Mike. Just…fuck you. I said I was sorry.”
Mike remembers the satisfying sound the CD Billie sent him made as it hit the pavement of his driveway. A loud crack! with the soft, twinkling sound of acrylic falling like heavy glitter, shining silver on the blacktop. The sun was setting that day, everything bathed in red.
“Doesn’t matter, Bill.” Soft tone of voice, chest moving with each breath, lungs feeling as if they had been filled with syrup. “You meant it. That’s all that fucking matters.”
Mike’s cigarette goes out before he finishes it. He tries to convince himself that that is the most annoying thing that has happened to him all night. It works about as well as when he tried to forget how he mouthed every word Billie sang at the show. How he knew every tour date, every person on the crew, every goddamn piece of information he could find or pay for, he knew.
“I’m leaving the band. That’s what I called to tell you.” Pain like a bullet wound, deep and blooming. Repeating the same words back to Bill and finding that he couldn’t spit them out with as much venom as he wanted.
Mike wonders at how he knows Billie is going to make it on his own. He tilts his head up, staring into the red sun of the bar sign. His jacket feels too big, like it was made to hold more than just him and he almost wants to tear it in half with his bare hands, just to feel like he’s accomplished something. Everything feels empty, like his cigarette that couldn’t wait for him to finish it, like the throb of the bar, churning with life without him in there, like every word and sound on Billie’s record that is missing something-him.
Mike is slowly starting to realize there is no keeping up in life. There isn’t even keeping score. Armed with a mostly-smoked pack of cigs, between a rough brick wall and the dark Oakland night, Mike’s starting to realize that no one really cares if he even shows up at all.